


We Don't Talk About How You Kidnapped Me

by JurassicParkour



Category: Star Trek, Supernatural
Genre: AU, Angst, Bones being grumpy and sassy, Crossover, Fluff, Multi, Torture fluff, more to come - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 03:24:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5569066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JurassicParkour/pseuds/JurassicParkour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bones McCoy is dragged into the life of a hunter. He learns the grounds and the stress and the problems of the Winchesters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Don't Talk About How You Kidnapped Me

Waking up with a pillow being brutally pressed into your face isn't the best thing to feel when you just wake up. I mean if you sleep on your stomach all the time, that's comfortable but my face was literally getting bruised my this freaking pillow. I sighed internally, I had an interview tomorrow and a bruised up face wasn't going to be pretty. That is, if I could get the damn pillow off my face. In the movies the victims die within seconds. Suffocation isn't actually that fast. Being a med school graduate I would know.  
The world record of breath holding is 11 minutes and 54 seconds. The average person can hold their breath for no more than 30 seconds without being uncomfortable. Two minutes if you're calm.  
When I was a kid, I could hold my breath for 1 minute 30 seconds, give or take. I was calm then. Now, you better freaking bet I was panic mode. Murder movies and books had often depicted this scene. For some reason the victim always tried to grab the attacker's arms which I always thought was as stupid as hell. Grabbing the arms of an attacker didn't give you any advantage over the person who was pushing downwards with their weight, if you pushed with your hands at the attacker's elbows, you lose half your strength. So no way was I ever going to grab at the elbows.  
Instead I positioned my hands near my face under the pillow, digging my elbows into the mattress to give any sort of leverage I could get. The pillow parted from my face for the first time, gasping I wrestled the attacker with the pillow, kicking out my feet to land with force on a soft part of a body. Probably the stomach since a sharp inhale of air and dry coughing followed the kick. I shoved the pillow away and sat up from my bed, standing up in a balanced stance, feet spread wide and hands held up at my face. The "proper way" to begin to defend yourself.  
My stance dropped. My eyes widened. My heart missed a few beats. My breath stuck in my throat. My mouth ran dry. 

"Mom?" I choked out.  
"No" she replied with a sadistic smirk I had no idea she could even pull off. "Your mother's gone, Died when I. Came. In."  
Okay so that's weird as a dog's hind leg. Moms don't try suffocating their kids or pretend that they aren't who they are when they obviously look like who they were. Confusing. I know. So sure I believed in God and Satan and whoever but possession? Hell no. No pun intended. Maybe. People just went bonkers sometimes. And apparently those people included my mom.  
"Sure sure. Okay multiple personality disorder. This was on Psycho right? When Norman's all 'I'm your mother Norman' and the mom's actually dead. Okay okay. So we what, lock you up? Padded cell. No visitors die to violent tendancies... Mkay," I mumbled to myself. Not Mom heard apparently and growled kind of like our dog Trudy. One weird ass guy and Trudy sounds like Psycho to me.Not Mom stood from the floor, our biggest and sharpest kitchen knife clutched in her hand. Fun times, fun times. "Woah woah hey you don't want to do that. Let's just," I stepped forward reaching for the black handled knife," set this dow-WOAAAH HEY NO CRAP OW NOPE," Not Mom lunged at me like a coiled snake, the knife acting as the lethal, dead-in-a-second poison. A jagged but shallow cut ran down my side. That was a good kitchen knife."Damn!" I threw profanities into the wind seeing as Not Mom wouldn't wash my mouth out with soap if I cussed like a freaking sailor in the middle of a knife fight. "Let's have a little fun with this, Leonard McCoy. Prolong our...time together," Not Mom snarled.  
Okay so Not Mom was a perverted lady with an obscene intentions. Not Mom proceeded to pin me against my own wall, arm flat against my collar bone and the knife held against my cheek, slowly etching itself into my face. I needed the shave anyways.  
I pushed against Not Mom, from the wall. Her stance was great, left foot behind her bracing herself from my counter weight. Not Mom knew stuff unlike Mom who only knew how to pull a trigger. That was only if the gun was loaded and the safety was off. It was my turn to growl against the knife that made my warm blood ruin my favorite pajamas. "Shit nuggets." My head throbbed, being pressed against the wall. My right hand freed itself from being behind my back, I reached for a conch shell I brought back from the beach just a few months ago. Little did I know that it would soon be my only defense. I grasped it like it was my life line. Which, now, it was. The tip of the shell was nearest my pinky, I held it like an awkward knife.  
Bringing the shell against the temple would break the skin and hopefully go deep enough to break the skull and penetrate the brain. I brought the shell against Not Mom's temple and heard something like crackers were being snapped in half. Definitely crushed the thin bone layer under the temple. Not Mom dropped to the floor, not without cutting to my jaw first.  
My bedroom door flew open and banged against the wall, no doubt making a hole in the drywall. Two men stepped in, both at least over 6 foot. "Do I have to take you guys on too? Because I really don't feel like it. I just killed someone who looked too much like my mom so I just want to make sure the rest of my family fine and dandy," it was then I realized the Georgian accent I tried to conceal was thicker than I wanted it. I pushed past the guys who were starring between me and the dead body on the floor.  
I jogged to my brothers' room, I saw them in their beds, but also liquid draining from the younger's bed. Hopefully he just wet himself. That dream vanished when I yanked back the covers.  
I counted a total of 26 stab wounds and several other minor lacerations, compared to the 26, between the both of them and a smile cut onto both their faces. I took a breath and pursed my lips together, swallowing the growing lump in my throat. The youngest had just had his 12th birthday the week before. The older brother was 14.  
I was nearly 26. Few months to go. I worked at a local liquor store, not able to get my dream job of a doctor due to job opening issues.  
I practically flew down the stairs, to my parents' room. My father's body sleeping peacefully in the bed. I walked closer, turning on the light, it appeared he stirred a bit. "Dad?"  
"let's finish what we started," he rose, his eyes completely black. "Aw hell no!" I yelled as I dug the bloody conch shell into the side of his neck. Black smoke poured from his mouth as he crumbled to the floor, red pooling at his knees. I took a frightened step back. His hands molded into something as he fell back. 'I love you' in sign language. Damn it, Mr. Rogers why'd you teach us that?  
Again, I took a breath and pursed my lips. My whole family was dead and bleeding. I couldn't stay here. I turned sharply and ran into someone. I cursed under my breath and pushed through the body. "Move," I demanded. I waved for them to follow me up the steps.  
I got to my room and flipped on the light. Looking at my watch I saw it was 1:48am. Great. I stepped over Not Mom and to my closet, opening it I pulled out my largest duffle. "You guys get her out of my room. Put her across the hall. I don't feel like looking at her anymore."  
I packed clothes, toiletries, shoved everyone's wallets into a ziplock bag, etc. whatever I needed, it was in the duffel. Including my Dad's 9mm pistol and some of his pocket knives. Never knew who else might want to kill you for some reason. Going into my parents' closet, I noticed jugs of water. Deciding it couldn't hurt, I drug that to the door as well. The next hour I stuffed my duffel to the brim. Emptying out purses, snatching books, unplugging chargers, finding laptops, all the while conversing lightly with the boys. Sam and Dean Winchester. The former was the youngest, hazel eyes, long brown hair, 6'4 or so. The latter being the oldest, green eyes as green as grass in the spring, hair that stuck up in dirty brown bits, about 6'2. Apparently they did this whole hunting demons and ghosts thing for a living. No money involved, only credit card fraud. "Was anyone in your family a hunter?" Sam had asked."Dad was. He got a 12 point buck once,"I replied, being smart. Dean scoffed and smiled at that one. Sam made a 'really-you-wanna-go-there' face.  
The two duffels were packed, seeing as I couldn't fit everything into one, and ready to see a life of a murderer. Police would probably arrive within the next 2 hours. Company was supposed to come at 9 and it was already 7 in the morning. Time flew like it never had.  
"So can we take you to a relative or pay for a hotel or anythin', Bones?"Dean asked.  
"Dean, we can't just leave him somewhere. He's killed both his parents and his brothers were mutilated then murdered. He's seen demons, Dean. We've told him about this stuff," Sam said quietly to his brother. "Sam, you can't expect us to just adopt him even if he is cute, which he definitely is," Dean shot a wink across the room to which I shot a death glare,"My point is, he hasn't had experience with this stuff."  
"Um actually, I just killed my parents who were possessed so I have a bit of experience. I took tae kwon do through high school. I have experience,"I replied, kind of wanting to go with them and live a life of adventure but then again safety.  
Sam looked at Dean with what could only be described as puppy eyes. Dean let out a deep sigh. "You know what, Sammy, fine. Remember no birthday or Christmas presents for a year. Bones is your present for the year."  
"I'm not anyone's present!" I stomped over to the door and snatched my duffels.  
Huffing, I walked to the car. '67 Chevy Impala 4 door, hard top. Dean had a thing for muscle cars and as soon as we started driving, I knew he had a thing for classic rock too. Wonderful. This'll be like Jim all over again.


End file.
